


tucked away

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, and I guess I have to say this but in the Year of Our Traveller 2019, anyway it's been a million years have some widojest, canon compliant if you don't like think too hard about it, please don't read if it ain't your thing, the rest of the Nein are there too but folks get prickly, when I tag background characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: “Nothing to carry, some stones fill our pockets / to give weight to what we have." -Anne Michaels(Jester retraces her fascination with Caleb and the things he keeps in his pockets. She can't quite remember all the details, but then—remembering stuff is more his thing, isn't it?)





	tucked away

Caleb keeps little stashes of things hidden away.

It's the first thing Jester had noticed about him when they all first met in that tavern—well, okay, not the first thing, because the _first_ thing she'd noticed was how bad his coat smelled which, like, isn't even her fault, okay? It had _reeked._ And then maybe after that the first thing she'd noticed was Frumpkin because, hello, _cat._ Very noticeable.

But, okay—maybe Jester has a lot of firsts, because the first _first_ thing she'd noticed about Caleb had been his eyes. So _blue—_ like the sapphires sewn into the tapestry back at the Chateau—and Jester had almost joked that hey, she's called Sapphire too sometimes, and look at them, just a pair of sapphires, right? But there had been a sorrow there that had somehow caught Jester's ever-wagging tongue—a cold, heavy melancholy that felt…permanent in a way Jester didn't think sadness was supposed to be.

But anyway—the stashes.

She assumes its one of those habits left over from whatever life he lived before—the one he's super crazy evasive about even though Jester is, like, _pretty_ sure everyone knows more about it than she does—but it doesn't stop her from watching with quiet delight as he plucks various things he needs from the pockets of his coat.

"How do you remember where everything is?" she'd asked him early on, back when they'd _really_ been the Mighty Nein and not the Mighty Nein-Turned-Four-Turned-Three-Turned-Not-Nein-But-Also-Nein-Again. She'd twisted away from where Fjord had been driving the cart to flip around and look back at him settled somewhat awkwardly in the rear of the cart with Beau and Nott, long legs pulled up to accommodate the small space, book resting precariously on his lap.

He hadn't responded, his eyes—Jester had spent her last few Sending spells just trying to articulate to her Mama how _blue_ his eyes were, not that that was weird or anything, blue is Mama's favorite color, of _course_ she'd be interested—focused squarely on the book in his lap. Beau nudged him, probably harder than she meant to. She does that, sometimes.

 _"_ _What?"_ he'd hissed out, looking up sharply to scowl at the monk, who just nodded lazily to where Jester had been hanging off the driver's seat, tail curling over her shoulder, smiling brightly at him.

His face had softened a tiny bit. Well, she thinks it had. Maybe they just passed under a cloud or something. Regardless, something about the situation had apparently amused Mollymauk where the tiefling had been watching them from his horse a few feet away, and she'd heard his soft, silvery laughter before he'd urged his mount on to pull ahead.

"Ah, apologies, Jester. What did you say?" he'd asked, in that tone that she had come to recognize as his _I'm not in a good mood and you have about fifteen seconds to make this conversation worthwhile before I start ignoring you again_ voice. It reminds her of some of the voices she heard stuffy nobles use at the Chateau. Had Caleb been a noble? Maybe a _prince?_ Jester had drawn in a deep, internal gasp, eyes going wide as her imagination spun out. Maybe _that's_ why he wore such terrible disgusting clothes! He was a prince _in disguise!_

Caleb had peered at her quizzically, like he couldn't decide if he was confused or angry. He looked at her like that lot, at the beginning, she reflects.

"I am…not a prince, Jester," he'd told her, frowning hard, and Jester had realized that she maybe probably said some of that out loud.

Up ahead, Molly's laughter had grown louder. Jester felt the faintest hint of a blush dust her cheeks before she'd boldly plunged on.

"Your pockets!" she'd said, gesturing wildly with one blue hand at his coat and nearly losing her balance in the process, requiring Fjord haul her back onto the driver's seat beside him with a grumbled, _"gonna die before we even get to Zadash."_ Jester hardly batted an eye, staring expectantly at the wizard, who had quirked a ginger eyebrow at her apparent dismissal of what could have easily become a near-death experience. "You're just, like, always pulling stuff out of them!"

"I have a pouch of materials, Jester," he'd told her, and she'd wrinkled her nose with delight because there's something about hearing her name in his soft accent that still makes her giggle. He'd pulled back his coat just slightly—Jester had swooped in to inspect, eyes wide with curiosity—as he'd gestured without _any_ kind of pizzazz or flair, which, to be honest, disappointed Jester a tiny bit, to a worn leather pouch secured to his belt.

She'd cocked her head, curious. "Materials?"

Caleb had let his coat drop, and Jester—realizing he was already _pretty_ cramped in the back of the cart without a blue tiefling sticking her face in his space—leaned back, propping her chin on her hand as she waited for his explanation.

 _"_ _Ja,_ materials," he'd repeated, frown returning. He'd frowned so much back in those early days, Jester reflects. "For spells."

Jester's lower lip had pushed out in confusion because, well, she casts spells too, and she doesn't have any kind of _materials_ except for maybe the day old chocolate that's melting in her pocket but she kind of doubts that's the kind of thing used in spell casting.

"Oh no," she'd murmured, blue brow puckering with worry. Caleb had titled his head, fixing her with a look of muted concern. At least that's what she thought it was. It could have been annoyance. It had been so hard to tell back then.

"Oh no?" Beau had repeated, eyebrow winging up. Her dark hands had curled absentmindedly around her staff, waiting for Jester to identify the source of the _oh no_ and probably hoping she could hit it with her stick.

"I don't have any kind of—of _materials,"_ Jester had protested, waving a hand at the place on Caleb's waist where his pouch is tucked away. She'd realized it had kind of looked like she'd been gesturing very earnestly at his dick, which had almost pulled a laugh out of her. _Almost._

Nott had cocked her head, frown peeking out just above the edges of her mask. "I don't use materials either," she'd remarked in that high, tinny voice of hers. Jester had watched the little goblin girl—well, the Not Goblin girl, as Jester now knows, but she hadn't known that _then_ so she'd still been the Nott Goblin—twist her small hands anxiously in her lap, large yellow eyes darting over to Caleb with apprehension.

Caleb had sighed—weary and slow. Mama used to say people who sighed like that were in need of a hard drink and a long sleep. Jester had made a mental note to remember to pass that along.

"Material components are necessitated by only wizards," he'd explained, and even though Jester still hadn't exactly known what he was talking about—he talked just like the stuffy important people back at the Chateau, and that alone had lead her to cling to her Prince In Disguise theory probably longer than she should have—but there had been a warm steadiness to his tone that instantly calmed her. "Clerics and tricksters—as far as I am aware—pull their power from other sources."

"Other sources?" Jester had tittered back, truly panicking now. "Like what? Where? I've never, like, _asked_ anyone for my magic or—or _sacrificed_ anything!"

Beau had pulled a face. "Why'd you immediately jump to sacrificing?" she'd asked in a tone that suggested sacrificing wasn't off the table, but rather more information was requested. Jester filed that reaction away for any future, sacrificial-related needs that might crop up.

Caleb had sighed again, but it wasn't as bone-tired as his last—it wasn't bogged down by exhaustion and exasperation and whatever else it was that Caleb always carried around with him that made him so weary.

"Jester," he'd told her, lifting an eyebrow when her worried gaze met his. "If the Traveller ever asks you for any materials, I'll give you some of mine."

Jester had _lit up—_ she remembers that feeling so _clearly—_ a low warmth, like the way good hugs felt, or the fireplace she'd always fell asleep beside back at the Chateau. Mama had always joked how drawn Jester was to fire—how funny it was that her cold little sapphire was so entranced by flames and heat.

Jester had lunged forward to seize Caleb's hands in hers—the movement upsetting the balance of the whole cart and nearly upending the whole thing and prompting Fjord to snap back at them to _"settle_ _ **down"**_ but Jester can't stop _smiling—_

"Thank you Caleb!" she'd gushed, holding his hands tightly in hers, ignoring the stiffness of his grip and the wide wariness of his eyes and the way he kinda seemed to be really hating the whole encounter—

"Caleb's very prepared!" Nott had piped up, oversized eyes wide and earnest. "And he's a _very_ good wizard, I'm sure he'd have anything you need—"

"We _get_ it," Beau had groaned, rolling her eyes. "Caleb's the best, Nott, we know. _Please_ find something else to talk about because I am _not_ going to listen to you sing his praises for this whole cart ride."

Jester had sworn she'd seen Caleb's lips twitch with a kind of _almost_ smile. Like his brain wanted him to do it, but his body couldn't quite remember how.

"You never answered me," she'd suddenly blurted, looking up to watch the quick snap of his eyes to hers, blinking when she'd realized he'd never looked away at all. "How do you remember what's in which pocket?"

That time he _had_ smiled—and Jester had smiled back for no reason other than _he_ was smiling and what a great thing, smiling is, and why weren't they doing this all the time? Just sitting and smiling because Caleb has a _really nice_ smile—

So caught up in her running commentary about smiling, Jester had almost missed his response.

"I have a very good memory, Jester," he'd told her, small smirk curving his lips _just so—_

And so began Jester's fixation on Caleb's pockets.

She remembers a story Mama used to tell her about a nursemaid with an enchanted Handy Haversack who would produce whatever she needed from the bag with a flourish. And while Caleb is certainly not a nursemaid, and she's _pretty_ sure his pockets aren't magical like her own Haversack, the things contained within them are undeniably very interesting and also usually precisely what they need at the exact moment they need it the most.

It keeps happening, over the course of their adventure. Like when a feather had appeared out of nowhere to use in his Feather Fall spell when they'd all been falling to their deaths, or when a pinch of phosphorous had all but materialized in is hands to create a wall of fire that had roared into existence between them and Avantika's crew, perfectly centered around her, like it had been created to shield _her_ which, yeah Jester, because you had the _journal_ it's not like he made it _for_ _you_ and even if she'd entertained a few daydreams like that, well, that was her business.

But it isn't just spell materials he keeps stashed away. Books, scraps of parchment, spare inkwells and quills. Less useful stuff too, she notices—she watches him produce a half-eaten apple she distinctly remembers him having started eating at breakfast and _gods Caleb_ your coat isn't _sanitary_ enough to keep food in it like that.

He seems to collect things wherever he goes. A handful of buttons vanish up the sleeve of his coat as they inspect an old shipyard. Some bits of rope disappear into one of the larger pockets at a tavern. He rips a dagger out of his chest after a particularly messy fight and Jester watches—eyes wide—as he wipes the bloodied blade clean on his pant leg before depositing the weapon in his boot, expression dark and grim.

"I don't know, maybe he just likes being prepared," Beau responded when Jester has pressed the monk for her opinion on Caleb's scavenging habits. She'd frowned, eyeing Jester at the edge of her vision. "Why're you watching him so closely anyway?"

_Because sometimes I see flashes of a Caleb who_ _**isn't** _ _sad and I made him laugh that one time and he listens to me and we waltzed once and I know he was drunk but I still think he liked it and sometimes he says my name with this funny little smile and my chest gets all warm—_

Jester had just shrugged, action quick and bouncy.

"I don't know," she'd chirped. "Just something to do!"

But it's not just trinkets and trash he keeps tucked away—although, to be fair, Jester is _always_ interested in trinkets and trash. He has these _faces—_ expressions and looks and guises he can put on almost like _masks._

"We're all tired," he'd said, and he'd _meant_ it. Caleb always seemed the weariest after a fight, and he'd stared down the last crewman of _The Mist_ with a look of exhaustion. _"I'm_ tired. _But."_ And here he'd stopped, and Jester had turned—drawn to the sudden drop of his voice—to see an almost entirely different Caleb standing there. One with sharp eyes and tense muscles and a sudden wild willfulness she'd never seen from him before as he took a step forward to loom over the crewman, staring him down with a face she almost didn't recognize—

"I can get to work."

Even Yasha's eyebrows had risen at that, and Jester watched as the crewman began to babble—telling them all they wanted to know and more—and Caleb slunk away as Beau and Nott took over questioning him. He had eased back into the shadows, and the _look—_ that face that was both Caleb and Not Caleb at the same time—slid off his face and back into his pockets, as the real Caleb—the tired, dirty, likes-books-and-his-cat-and-not-much-else Caleb, returned.

But Jester had seen it all.

She knows there's another side to him—a duplicitous double, like hers. The side named _Bren_ that—like all of Caleb's other tools and tricks and trinkets—can be pulled out at a moment's notice.

 _"_ _I have a very good memory,"_ he'd told her, but she can see in his face—the Not Caleb face, the _Bren_ face—that he wishes he didn't. That every time he pulls Bren out of whatever pocket he's kept away in, Caleb is reliving some moment he never wanted to see again. It hurts him, but he does it anyway—because they need him to, and Caleb always does what is asked of him.

That worries her too—that cold, naked disregard for his own wants and wishes. How easily he can be convinced to do something he clearly has more than a few reservations about, how willingly he shakes exhaustion from his bones when something is asked of him, how often he spends hours and hours and _hours_ researching something for them all.

Jester still doesn't know if he does it because of how much he likes the Mighty Nein, or if he does it because of how little he likes himself. The thought leaves her feeling chilled and empty and wishing she had pockets like Caleb's where she could shove the thought away and never think of it again.

 _"_ _People aren't tools, Jester,"_ Mama used to tell her, always instilling lessons of respect and kindness in her daughter, worried about the nasty, privileged behavior some of the Chateau's patrons often displayed towards the serving girls or stable hands. _"We are people before we are our jobs, or our rank, or our wealth. Do you understand?"_

Jester had understood—had even told Caleb so once, parroting her mother's words: _"You aren't a tool, Caleb,"_ and he'd just looked askance at her from across the campfire he'd made, eyes reflecting the glow of the flames and giving them the impression of raw chunks of sapphire.

"Of course," he'd replied, but it was his _lying_ voice—the one he uses when he says things like _I'm okay,_ or _I'm not tired,_ or _yes, that's fine._ She _hates_ that voice.

Caleb has a good memory—but Jester does too. She remembers the crazed edge his grin had gained back upon the deck of the _Squall Eater_ when he threw down Avantika's decoded journal as evidence against her, and Jester had flinched when the Plank King's justice fell—but Caleb-turned-Bren hadn't even blinked.

She remembers in the caverns, Fjord and Caleb and that—that _thing_ they'd stood upon. Some arcane circle ringed with runes and symbols and _why were Fjord and Caleb still_ _ **standing**_ _by it?_ She'd just been preparing to call them back when Fjord had stuck out his hand, and Jester had watched, stricken, as Bren's face bloomed across Caleb's to shake it.

She remembers the way the light from Twiggy's Happy Fun Ball of Tricks had warmed his face as he'd gingerly taken the contraption in his hands—slender fingers subtle and sure in their actions as he twisted and turned the, well, _whatever it was_ , his expression almost… _hungry._ Like the gold Twiggy had produced was just a taste, and he wanted— _needed_ —to know what else it could do.

They scare her, a little, the faces. Because—what if Bren stays? What if Caleb never comes back? Jester doesn't want to think about that. Already, she has nightmares about a Fjord-shaped figure—pitch black with yellow glowing eyes—looming above her, holding a falchion just like Fjord's but it _couldn't_ be, right? Because Fjord would never hurt _any_ of them because they're a _group_ and _gods_ there's always so much _water_ in her dreams and she's _drowning_ all over again but this time there's no one to _save_ her—

_"_ _Jester."_

She'd bolted awake, blue hands grasping for her throat, feeling pain that isn't there as she bled out from wound that's not real. Across from her, blue eyes—the bluest in all the world, bluer than the sea, than the sky, than the blueberries Caduceus had once pointed out to her. Caleb crouched in the dirt at her side, edges of his coat pooling around him, one hand on her shoulder.

Jester had blinked.

The face beside her hadn't been quite Caleb, but it hadn't been quite Bren either—some strange combination of both that was soft and careful and worried and kind and _almost_ like her Caleb but _just a bit off—_

Jester had wondered if this is the Bren from before. The _real_ Bren. The one who had been a farm boy in the Zemnian Fields. The one he never talks about. The one she sees flashes of when he isn't thinking. The one who had called her _Astrid._

Before she can decide, he had seemed to remember himself and his normal mask slid back down. His Just Caleb face. Dirty and tired and with Frumpkin perched on his shoulder, whiskers twitching as he too leaned forward to inspect her and while Jester likes Caleb _a lot—_ more than even the Traveller knows—she wishes she could meet the Not-Caleb-Not-Bren-But-Also-Both-Of-Them-At-The-Same-Time who lives in between. She thinks they could be great friends, actually. She's pretty good at making friends.

But back then, she hadn't been thinking so far ahead, and concern had marred Caleb's features—scrunching his face in a way that might have made her laugh if she had any breath to spare.

"What happened?" she'd croaked out, voice all wrong, and she'd frowned at the sound of it.

Caleb had assessed her—she knows she's guilty of taking too many glances at him to be normal, but she also knows he does the same when he thinks she's not looking—but he'd openly peered at her then, idly worrying his lip as he sat back on his heels, giving her a bit of space she hadn't asked for.

"You had a bad dream, Jester," he'd told her lowly. From one of his pockets—of course—he'd produced a handkerchief; and after a hesitation that had made her throat catch, he'd leaned forward to gently brush away at something beneath her eyes.

Frowning, Jester had reached up to touch the same space, to feel, to know what he was doing, and pulled her hand away to see tears staining the tips of her fingers.

"Oh," she'd said, aloud, without even really meaning to.

Around them, the rest of the Nein had been asleep, and the silver wire Caleb always set out had gleamed gently from its place in the grass at the front of their little campsite.

The silence must have become awkward—Jester is always so bad at telling when that happens, but Caleb is keenly aware of it—because he'd coughed in that way that means he's coughing to make noise instead of any actual _need_ to cough.

"Here," he'd murmured, passing the handkerchief to her. His hands now unoccupied, she'd watched them flex before curling into fists and resting on his thighs where he'd still crouched beside her. "I'm still taking watch but, uh—" that cough again, the forced one, the one that meant he didn't know what to say and was buying time to think of something "—Frumpkin can stay with you, if you'd like."

Jester had nodded, had bit her tongue from saying _can you stay with me?_ because she still can't quite find her voice and also—she'd twisted his handkerchief in her hands—what if he said no? What if he coughed again—the one that means he's uncomfortable and wants to leave?

So Caleb had stood—Jester tilting her head back to watch, the cool air somewhat sharp on her wet cheeks—and after a brief moment where nothing much happened but Jester felt like something _should_ be happening but she didn't know what, Caleb just nodded at her, shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, and turned to walk away.

In the daylight, it had been harder to remember that anything had happened at all. It felt almost like a dream—she's had dreams about Caleb, okay, it's not weird, she dreams about everyone, they're all just silly dreams and there's nothing to talk about _so stop asking, Beau—_ the Nein went on with their business, and everyone fell into place with each other.

Nott had gone trotting after Caleb, who was reading a passage of his book aloud to Fjord as they walked, apparently trying to get the warlock's perspective on something while Beau kept step with Jester, staff slung across her shoulders as she chatted with Yasha, Caduceus a warm, soothing presence at her side.

But then Jester had placed her hand in her own pocket—a small, shallow thing, not like the bottomless pits Caleb carries around in his coat—and her hand had brushed against the handkerchief, and she remembered.

It isn't the last time the thing Caleb pulls from his coat is a gift for her.

"For _me?"_ she'd gasped that day in Nicodranas, eyes wide, and he's doing that thing with his face where he looks like he'd be smiling if he didn't insist on being so _somber_ all the time. His lips twitch as he surrenders the book to her.

 _"_ _Ja,"_ he'd replied easily, stuffing his hands in his pockets and watching her flip through the pages. "Careful now—don't spoil the story."

It had been a romance novel—didn't Caleb hate those?—but Jester wouldn't have cared if it was a stuffy history textbook. He had given it to her and it was hers now and nothing else had been important.

She'd devoured it in an afternoon—constantly bumping into Beau's back and nearly tripping over Caduceus' staff as she'd tried to read and walk with little success, until finally someone had curled their fingers into the shoulder of her cloak and lightly pulled her back on course and who in the Nein even _had_ hands that gentle—?

"Jester," Caleb—of course, who else? Jester feels silly for even wondering. He'd arched an eyebrow in that way of his that Jester has come to learn now means he's being playful. "You're becoming a danger to yourself. I didn't know you liked reading so much."

She'd tossed him a peeved look, still holding her new book before her eyes. Caleb tugged her around a patch of loose cobblestone as they kept walking.

"You think you're the only one who likes books?" she'd challenged, and he'd only smiled.

 _"_ _Nein,_ Jester. Apologies. I didn't mean it like that." He'd dropped her arm and she tried not to look too disappointed. His hands went to his pockets then, like always. "It's just nice to have someone to share it with, I suppose."

Jester had nodded, slowly lowering her book. They'd fallen a bit behind the rest of the Nein, and she knew she had to make this quick before Beau made a joke, or Nott tried her hand at matchmaking _again—_ so she'd bumped her hip playfully against his and said, as lightly and carefree and totally, painfully casually as she could, "You can share whatever you want with me, you know." She'd tipped him a conspiring wink to try and take some of the heaviness out of her sentiment. "I've got deep pockets too."

She'd flounced off then, not even waiting to see his reply because _yes_ she's drowned and faced dragons but _gods_ the idea of facing Caleb's expression after she does something even a little risky still positively horrifies her.

Later that day, though, when the Nein had been beginning to make camp, Caleb had called her over to where he was standing near Yasha and Nott and asked—calm as could be, hardly even looking at her—if she had room for some of his spare quills in her Haversack.

Their hands had brushed again when he handed them to her—rattling off some excuse about wanting to keep them safe and in good condition—and Jester had smiled to herself.

Recounting all this—really, Jester spends _a lot_ of time committing Caleb-related things to memory—has lead Jester to where she is now: approaching Caleb where he sits off in the grassy field, a good few hundred feet away from where the Nein have made camp.

It's nice here, really. She spies a patch of wildflowers growing at the edge of her vision and makes a mental note to send Yasha their way later.

She moves to stand next to Caleb, content as the wind tugs lightly on the edge of her cloak. His fixation on his book and general disregard for everything around him reminds her of that time on their way to Zadash, the time when she'd first asked him about his pockets and his memory, and Beau had nudged him and he'd looked up—

"Jester?" Caleb is peering up at her now, one eyebrow raised—half-curious, half-cautious, a very Caleb look—as he closes the book in his lap, giving her his full attention.

She smiles softly, hunkering down to sit beside him. She vaguely recalls Mama once reminding her to always sit like a lady when wearing a dress but Jester's done enough remembering for today, and _sitting like a lady_ isn't nearly as comfortable as just flopping backwards into the tall grass, spreading her arms out wide.

Caleb leans over her a bit, a smile just barely peeking out as he assesses her position.

"Tired?" he asks. "It's been a long few days."

She nods idly, fighting a yawn as she uses her sprawled position to stretch out as far as she can, listening to her bones creak. It'd been an even longer afternoon, trawling back through all her memories. She wonders if that's why Caleb's always tired—endlessly reliving all his memories, looking for clues, putting faces to names, searching for anything that can help them.

Nothing much happens, then—she starts picking out shapes in the passing clouds, and Caleb returns to his book—and Jester wonders why she can't remember when _this_ became okay. When they could share space without really wanting or needing anything from each other. Just _existing._

She sits up, and Caleb stirs beside her a bit, but when she stays quiet he keeps reading. Jester tilts her head at that too because she can't recall when exactly it became possible to pull Caleb out of a book, but now he seems almost always attuned to her—waiting for her to say something, allowing her to pull him out of whatever he was occupied with, humoring her when before, she knows he'd have ignored her.

She guesses there are some things that aren't tied to specific memories—some things just _happen_ —gradually, over time, so slow it isn't really easy to tell when exactly it all fell into place.

Jester hums thoughtfully at this, and she watches Caleb tilt his head just slightly towards her as he turns a page, clearly half-listening for her chatter.

"Do you ever wish you could forget stuff?" she asks him softly.

Caleb blinks—he always does that, whenever he comes across something that confuses him, like an owl, but cuter—and she watches as he huffs a laugh, glancing at her sideways with a tilt to his eyebrow, the way he does when she's caught him off-guard.

 _"_ _Ja,_ of course. Doesn't everyone?" he counters, lifting an eyebrow.

Jester thinks about it. Thinks about being kidnapped. Thinks about nearly drowning. Thinks about the way Caleb's face had crumbled down in Yeza's basement when Nott had screeched _you did this_ at him.

"Yeah," she agrees softly. "Yeah, there's some stuff I'd like to forget, I guess."

Caleb's expression goes dark with concern, and Jester kicks herself for ruining the mood so quickly as she scrambles to move on.

"Do you remember when we first met?" she says, drawing her knees up to her chest and titling her head at him.

The shadow of worry that always lurks in his eyes when he's troubled over someone—usually her, though she can't decide if it's because of any _reasons_ or if it's because, honestly, she's the most likely to do something to _be_ troubled over—is still there, but his lips tug up just slightly anyway, amused.

"I do," he answers, patient. Allowing her to play her game.

Jester grins back. "What color was my dress?" she asks.

"White," he answers quickly—maybe too quickly, because he looks away all of a sudden, but Jester is _delighted._

"Okay, okay," Jester actually sits up on her knees now, excited that she knows he's going to indulge her. "What color was the ribbon tied to my tail?"

Caleb opens his mouth, then closes it, throwing her a sideways look.

"Pink," he replies. "But it was tied to your horn, not your tail." He arches an eyebrow, mock-warning her that he's wise to her pretend ruse, and Jester just laughs.

"How much gold did Fjord, Beau, and I have?"

"Twenty-four. Eight pieces each."

"What cards did Molly pull for me?"

"The Silver Dragon, the Anvil, and the Serpent"

"What was the first thing you put in the pocket of your coat?"

"I—" Caleb breaks off, eyes going unfocused as he realizes the answer to that question lies in a different memory. A long pause follows, and Jester worries she went too far, she said the wrong thing, and maybe she should just be like Yasha and only talk when something important needs to be said—

"Charcoal, incense, and herbs," he finally answers, quietly, hoarsely. "I had—from the Academy, I only had so much time after I—when I—" he can't seem to find his words.

"When you left?" Jester prompts him gently, and Caleb blinks, the haze in his eyes—the one that says he had been in a completely different place—lifts as he glances down at her.

 _"_ _Ja,"_ he tells her softly. "When I—when I left. I took this coat and stuffed those materials in the pocket."

Jester nods. "So you could summon Frumpkin," she says, following the logic, and he tilts his head, surprised.

She blinks, waiting for him to say something, but he just stares at her until Jester feels the faintest hint of a blush crawl up her neck.

"What?" she asks. She bumps shoulders with him, hoping to coax another smile. "I remember sometimes too."

He nods at this, but she can see he's still in that troubled place, but she can't bring herself to regret bringing it up because she _knows_ he's still afraid of her finding out the ugly parts of him—her, more than anyone else in the Nein, which both delights and aggravates her—because she's seen some shit too, you know, and he doesn't need to _hide—_

But she doesn't want to push. Just gentle reminders, here and there. Instead she leans against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

"You have a lot of nice memories, too," she reminds him. "Like Hupperdook. Hupperdook was nice, right?"

Caleb seems to hesitate for a moment in a way that's very unlike him, before nodding. "Of course," he says, and Jester makes a face at his _lying voice._

"Do you…" Jester trails off, biting her lip. Maybe Hupperdook wasn't the best thing to remind him of—maybe he was still angry about the letter she and Nott had written to Astrid. Maybe he hadn't enjoyed the waltz at all.

"I don't remember it." The admission is quick and low and Jester almost misses it entirely.

She frowns hard, peering at him. He won't meet her gaze. "You don't _remember_ Hupperdook?" This is Caleb. He remembers everything. That's like—that's like his _thing._

Caleb almost seems…defensive? "I know what _happened,"_ he says and _oh wow_ that sure is the voice of someone with _wounded pride_. "You _told_ me what happened—I was just _drunk_ at the time, so—"

"But the actual, like, _memory_ of it," Jester presses, enjoying this _way_ too much as she leans a bit closer into his space, her whole face alight with a grin because _she remembers something Caleb doesn't, she remembers something Caleb doesn't—_

Caleb huffs out a sigh, rolling his eyes and pushing hair back away from his brow the way he does when he's kind of irritated but not really.

 _"_ _Nein,"_ he tells her, and she laughs at the tartness of his usually smooth accent. "I do not remember a moment of it, Jester."

A pause. The wind blows in again, whistling through the grass. Jester can just barely hear the faint sounds of the Nein from camp. She's suddenly hyperaware of their proximity and its like all the memories she'd spent the day recounting are suddenly bearing down on her, like they'd all been building, waiting for her to get here—

Jester feels like she's going to remember this, too.

"Do you want to?" she asks, and Caleb's eyes spark like struck flint.

"Here." She's on her feet in a flash, smile overtaking her face as she grabs his hands, tugging him to his feet. "Here, I'll show you! We can do it again, right now!"

 _"_ _Jester."_ Caleb is starting to sigh, but he lets her haul him upright anyway, and Jester giggles, delighted at the turn of events as she threads their fingers together, nose scrunching up while his book lies forgotten in the grass.

"You were _much_ more gentlemanly in Hupperdook," she tells him, grinning so he knows she's only teasing. Caleb scoffs, moving with her as she aimlessly tugs them around, mindful of their balance.

"I'm not much of a gentleman," he says, and Jester just rolls her eyes—as big and dramatic as she can—so he knows what she thinks of _that_ comment.

"Right," she drawls. "You just take _care_ of everyone and always look _out_ for other people and _constantly_ do everything you possibly can for _everyone—"_

He's fighting a blush now, she can see it. "Jester—"

She pulls her hands free of his, holding them up in mock surrender. "No, no, it's okay. _Apparently_ I don't know a gentleman when I see one."

He snorts at her pretend attitude. "Far be it from me to correct a lady," he replies, in that mock pretentious voice that always makes her laugh.

And—look. She knows he's not a prince _now,_ but like? He totally could be, if he wanted. She keeps that to herself this time, though.

He's still standing too far away, and Jester rolls her eyes and reaches forward to tuck her hands neatly into his pockets and pull him forward by his coat, smiling when he obliges and closes the last bit of distance between them, his hands coming up to rest gingerly on the underside of her elbows. He weaves flaming spheres of destruction from thin air with his bare hands, but his touch is always careful and cautious when she's involved.

"Is this how we danced in Hupperdook?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow, the makings of a smirk playing at his lips.

Jester makes a face, wiggling her hands where they still rest in his pockets. "Maybe. Wouldn't you like to know?"

He tilts his head, peering at her with a half-amused look on his face. "I thought that was the whole purpose of this exercise, Jester."

She's still sort of pointlessly moving about—there's something about Caleb mindlessly following her around, without any prompting or even apparent thought to what he's doing, that _tugs_ at her—

"Maybe I just wanted an excuse to dance with you," she tells him. There's something in his left pocket that's brushing up against her hand, it feels like parchment—thin and papery.

Caleb blinks, like he doesn't quite know what to do with that information, so Jester just smiles as sweetly as she can. They stand silently for a moment—wind blowing softly around them—and Jester worries she said the wrong thing.

"There's a big masquerade ball at the Chateau every year," she blurts, mostly to fill the silence. She pulls her hands out of his pockets, and Caleb starts to lower his own hands where he holds her arms, but she only reaches up, small blue fingers alighting on his shoulders.

She drums them experimentally against the thick wool of his coat, and he laughs softly at her antics, finally placing two steadying hands on her hips—on the outside of her cloak, of course. _Not a gentleman,_ right.

"A masquerade ball?" he asks, finally finding his voice again. They aren't really moving—just sort of idly swaying in the shared space. She keeps tapping her fingers along his shoulders, making up a little rhythm in her head.

"Uh-huh," she bobs her head affirmatively. "It's Mama's favorite event. She casts a bunch of spells and makes herself look completely different, so she can go around and talk to people without it being weird because, she's, y'know," Jester makes a sort of absentminded gesture with one hand, the action causing her to graze Caleb's ear. _"The Ruby of the Sea."_

He laughs at her mock-serious voice. "Your mother is very intimidating," he says. "I don't think I'd fare well in a casual chat with her either."

Jester blows his comment off with a scoff, inwardly preening at the laugh she'd managed to pull from him.

"She likes you a lot," Jester remarks, suddenly ducking her head. Her hands move down to toy with the front flaps of his coat. "Mama, I mean."

She can feel his eyes on her—Mama had teased her _relentlessly_ about all the messages she'd received about Caleb Widogast's eyes, though thankfully not in front of Caleb himself, who Jester thinks might have died at the attention—but refuses to look up, tugging aimlessly at the frayed edges of his coat, quietly using a Mending spell to patch up some of the worst spots.

"I'm glad to hear it," he says, voice low and quiet and serious in that way it gets sometimes. "And while I mean no disrespect to your mother, she is not the Lavorre whose opinion I am most concerned with."

Jester's stomach swoops at that, but she glances up, eyes flashing, recovering her cheek. "And which Lavorre would that be?" she asks, even as her heart thuds in her chest.

His answering look is partly humored, partly exasperated, and just a tiny bit adoring. That in-between Caleb and Bren face she likes so much.

But just as quickly—it's gone, and Caleb is fixing her with a neutral expression. He drums his fingers along her sides like she'd done to his shoulders earlier, and she fights back a smile as he seems to ponder her question.

"Well, now that you mention it, I'm not sure I can recall," he tells her, pitching his voice faint and faraway, making her laugh.

She shoves him playfully. _"Cay-leb,"_ she admonishes, drawing his name out the way he likes.

"No, no, I'm sorry," he says, and his poker face is _leagues_ better than hers. Privately, she's glad he can use all that training he received for something fun and carefree, instead of always lying and tricking people on behalf of the Nein. He shakes his head. "It's completely slipped my mind. I haven't the foggiest."

"You have a perfect memory!" she protests, shaking him lightly, humor still bubbling up in her and making her feel warm and safe and happy and okay, _maybe_ this is better than Hupperdook.

"Do I?" He stoops forward, bearing some of his weight on her like he's grown faint, and Jester laughs, supporting him easily. "I can't even remember…"

He's bowed over her—their position somewhat awkward considering he's still got his hands on her waist, and hers are braced against his stomach. But unlike Caleb, Jester is _not_ a gentleman and her fingers are _decidedly_ under his coat, splayed across his undershirt, the tip of her pinky brushing against the harness that holds his books—

He huffs a laugh, his breath tickling her ear where he's bent over above her shoulder.

"All the good stuff's in my pockets, I'm afraid," he tells her. "Nothing there but old books."

Jester thinks of the reverence with which he handles the books at his side—thinks of how he'd trusted her with him.

"I know," she says, because she can't really think of anything else _to_ say and at this point Caleb has usually begged off with some nonsense excuse or another so really she didn't expect things to go this far and she's flying just a little blind right now which she should probably be used to by now—

"I'm glad I'll remember this," Caleb tells her quietly. He pulls back to offer her a small smile, and Jester _basks_ in it.

"Me too," she says. And she means it.

**Author's Note:**

> hey hello I'm back with more widojest because even though I've dropped off of CR as a whole for a bit ~~this fic was written without me having seen the last like six episodes so like sorry if it shows~~ but those two weenies still tug at my heartstrings. also I would kill a man for Jester Lavorre but if I had to write much more than 7k words in her voice I might actually pass out it's such a winding, repetitive cadence and it like physically hurts me to focus on lmao
> 
> get updates when I post fic and see stuff that got cut on my side twitter [@reduxwriter](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) or follow my everyday shenanigans (it's mostly pictures of my dog and hot takes on midwest politics I'm gonna be real) at [@reduxroyal](https://twitter.com/reduxroyal).
> 
> I've got more crit role fic you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=5406982) if you want. just a heads up: it's a mix of both campaigns and a few different ships.
> 
> have a good day and be nice to each other <3 bye for now kids
> 
> ~~also if you're new here I am so sorry to report that yes: all my fics are as painfully PG as this one. my specialty is writing my OTPs hopelessly dancing around their feelings. it's my life's calling lmao~~


End file.
